Epithumia, Nous, Thymos
by Aurumite
Summary: Childhood adventures of Ephraim, Eirika, and the boy who loves them most.


_Note: Nagamas gift part 1/3 for gahraazel._

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 **I. Garden**

They're both formed like gods.

Lyon could write an essay on the lines of Ephraim, the way his thick hair begins to curl the longer it grows, the straight slope of his nose, the breadth of his shoulders against his lithe, narrow waist. And Eirika's eyes, sky-blue and ethereally bright against the red spots in her cheeks—when Ephraim makes her blush Lyon wants to hold her face, feel her warm and ripen like an apple against his palms. Their smiles are exactly the same shape, full and soft, but Eirika's carries a sweetness that weakens his knees, and Ephraim's a mischief that hurls his heart into his throat.

He's never had friends before, and he's sure the way his pulse races for them is pure anxiety. They're so beautiful, so kind, and he's so awkward and underwhelming. He'd do anything not to mess this up and lose them. It's difficult to comprehend that they could smile at him so, when his own smile is timid and full of crooked teeth, when the sentences he speaks through it come out rushed and stuttering. But they still call him from the edge of the garden— _Lyon, come here! Lyon, look at this!—_ like he's divine too, winged and shining instead of shackled down by his illnesses, and he flies to them.

 **II. Fruit**

The twins are astounded by Grado.

They say they've been to Frelia many times, which already make them far better-traveled than Lyon, but they tell him Frelia and Renais have more similarities. They marvel at the little domed roofs and soaring minarets of Grado Keep, the colored marble in the throne room, the shining mosaics of wild gardens and ancient retinues pressed into the walls. Ephraim's fingers glide over the silver inlay of the flat soldiers' swords as they walk; Eirika oohs over flashes of gold from gilt doorknobs, hinges, and latches. At first Lyon is surprised, for they are royalty too, but then his economics lessons return to him. Grado's capital is the richest on the continent, and Lyon has most likely taken it all for granted.

He starts to delight in showing them things they've never seen before. After all, they teach him so much of the same: how to hold a spear properly (though he's not strong enough to manage it, even with Ephraim's hands over his), and how to braid complicated plaits (though his half of Eirika's hair is messy and uneven compared to the half Ephraim shaped. They even show him how to tuck flowers into her braids to hide any mistakes. She keeps the style all day long, like she doesn't mind that it's lopsided).

He's particularly shocked but particularly glad when they find one of the fruit trees in the garden.

"Lyon," they ask in tandem. "What's this?"

"You've never had a pomegranate before? Truly?"

It's the right season, and he thinks they all deserve to indulge, so rather than picking a single fruit to share, he picks three, and carries them all to the nearest bench. The twins sit on either side of him, Eirika's gaze on the birds carved into the bench's stone legs, Ephraim's on the pomegranates.

Lyon pulls out his bone pocket knife, smooth and simple and perfect for drawing the drops of blood his more advanced spells require. He shows them how to cut the fruit's thick skin in sections, how to break them open without spraying red everywhere. They share the knife. He makes a mental note to cleanse it with scented oil before he uses it again for magic. His tutor might be displeased to learn he's done something so frivolous, but then, to a dark mage, what is a nobler goal than the pursuit of the unknown?

They ask their questions through full mouths and he answers through his smile: yes, they can swallow the pits; no, they shouldn't eat the skin; yes, they'll be in trouble if they make a big mess, so—Ephraim, _stop_.

He squirts a pip at Eirika and it splatters over her lace collar, like tiny rubies embroidered at her throat. She looks at Lyon with another question in her eyes.

"Yes," he answers nervously. "The juice stains. Rather permanently."

She squints at Ephraim and then slowly, deliberately, reaches over Lyon and presses another pip into Ephraim's white cotton sleeve. When she pulls away it looks like she's stabbed him. Lyon touches his knife through his pocket, just to check. Ephraim's mouth shifts from a mock-offended _oh_ to his usual grin as he turns to Lyon.

"Don't," Lyon says, smiling despite himself, but Ephraim is already smudging fruit against the back of his hand. Twins and their matching. The red smear highlights how ghastly pale he is, but he feels perfectly healthy, for the first time in a long time.

"Brother, stop causing problems."

"Make me."

They all return to the Keep as a terrible wreck, lips and chins and fingers dyed scarlet, dark patches blooming down Eirika's front and across Lyon's lap and—inexplicably—there's one on the back of Ephraim's tunic. Their stomachs are swollen with juice. They lean against each other as if they couldn't walk without the support, erupting into giggles at every little thing.

Father McGregor isn't pleased when he comes upon them in the corridor. The twins seem ready to accept their punishment but Lyon knows he can excuse them all.

"Father," he insists, "they've never seen anything like a pomegranate before. We didn't realize they were so messy, when perfectly ripe. I just wanted to share with them."

They're dismissed with a stern look and an order to wash up. Obediently, they go off in the direction of the baths, mischief sated, the twins hissing "Good show" into his ears.

 **III. Stars**

Astronomy becomes Lyon's favourite lesson.

Generally, he prefers not to be outside. Most of the clerics on the castle staff prefer it too, since he gets sick so easily. It's much nicer to stay curled around a thick book in bed, or at his sturdy desk with its sweet, musty scent of parchment and oak.

But for astronomy, Father MacGregor calls for them long after sundown and takes them out into the garden, under the stars. Lyon has whiled away so many afternoons there with Ephraim and Eirika that it feels more like play than a lesson, at first. Autumn has just begun and the dark air has the slightest sharpness to it, like the edge of a mosaic tile. Eirika hands him her cloak at his very first shiver. Ephraim gives her his, then, without either of them exchanging a single word or look. Lyon wants to give Ephraim the one he's wearing under Eirika's, but he's already gone, helping Father MacGregor set up the brass spyglass.

They spend hours there, taking turns observing the silver moonlight through the eyepiece, charting constellations as best they can by the little brazier their tutor has brought. They learn the stories that the ancients assigned to them, to explain their movement across the Heavens: the Warrior and Maiden exchanging places in their sacred watch through fall and spring, the Throne lording above all in the north, the Wizard with his orange eye staying low to the horizon to cast the spell of sunlight for morning.

They know better now, of course. Theirs is a society of learning and order, and they understand that the stars hold no magic, and the moon no sway over Eirika (she outshines it in any case). But the legends are still their favourite part, and they are more than content to lie there in the grass as Father MacGregor indulgently spins them again and again, only shifting when Ephraim shudders so that Lyon can finally give him his cloak.

 **IV. Sweets**

The twins move into his room like cats, one slight with a thick-braided mane, the other gangly and grinning.

It's nothing new, them curling up with him in the dead of night. Most nights, either they come to him or he goes to them. The three of them are always made to go to bed too early, it seems, right in the middle of telling secrets or especially exciting stories. At first Eirika protested against breaking their curfew, but it was only right, they all soon realized, that they be allowed to finish. That they be allowed together. The groggy mornings that follow are worth it, as are the cold and dangerous missions back to their respective rooms.

But this night, as Eirika tells a story about a king who could only eat gold and Lyon practices braiding on his own hair, Ephraim proposes something different.

"I'm starving," he says, taking up most of the bed as he rolls to study the canopy. "What do you say to sneaking to the kitchens with me to secret something?"

"That's against the rules," Eirika says at once. "And it's bad for you to eat after bedtime, besides."

"Says the girl who ate _four_ candied figs before Father stopped her."

"Hush, you! They're my favourite."

"And where do you think the leftovers are? You could have them, you know. As many as you want."

She falls silent. Ephraim rolls to Lyon next, plopping his head solidly on his knee.

"Am I your next victim, then?" Lyon sighs.

"Aren't you hungry?"

Lyon isn't, not truthfully, but he'd give anything for Ephraim not to be.

"Famished," he answers, and then Ephraim's off the bed and on the balls of his feet, and Lyon is swallowing a complaint about the chill as he follows.

"If we get caught," Eirika warns, but she eases out of the blankets without finishing her sentence.

"We won't be," Ephraim says. He sounds so sure that neither of them prod for proof.

They sneak through the hallways in single file. Lyon tries to remember where each guard should be posted and patrolling, but has never been out of bed this late, and can't be sure. He can hardly see anything. The hair on the back of his neck won't lower no matter how slowly he tries to breathe. They take a quiet route to avoid anyone sleeping in the hall, by the hearth: out a side door, hugging the castle wall to the herb garden, and then in through the larder's back entrance.

It's black and warm and silent inside. They move carefully, avoiding all the shelves until they can creak open the door to the kitchen proper and try to gather a little light from the windows, or perhaps find a torch. The kitchen is deserted. They creep in like mice.

Before they can even begin to search, sharp footsteps approach from the hall. There's nowhere to hide. Ephraim grabs Eirika's elbow.

"Take him and go," he orders, and then he's gone, through the kitchen door and into the corridor, and Eirika's fingers are between Lyon's.

"Hurry," she hisses.

But just then Lyon spots them: the candied figs, neatly piled in a shallow dish on the table in the kitchen's center. He breaks from her grasp and runs for them.

"Lyon!"

There's a tremendous metal crash in the hallway, as if Ephraim in his escape has run headlong into a suit of armour and sent it exploding across the floor. That's exactly what he's done, Lyon realizes as two guards rush by the kitchen door to investigate. It's a distraction.

"Lyon, hurry!"

"I've memorized Flux," he stammers, realizing too late that she has no idea what that means for them. He just grabs the dish and gestures, and Eirika holds out the skirt of her nightgown to let him pour, clearly unwilling to escape without him. The footsteps are returning.

"I'll catch up," he says. "Go, please."

He turns from her without knowing if she'll listen, already muttering the first lines, feeling the ancient language line his tongue with sparks, cake like melting chocolate on the roof of his mouth. The other mages still read their spells from pages; he doesn't understand how they don't memorize them automatically, through sheer repetition. He pulls shadows from the darkest crevices of the room: under the table and counter edges, inside empty, open jars and behind sacks of potatoes and onions. He stretches them over the kitchen door like a curtain, and though the guards have arrived by now to investigate, they're as good as blind the moment they enter the room. He and Eirika have all the time in the world to leave.

She half-obeyed— is waiting for him in the garden. He'd expected her to keep carrying the figs in her skirt, like a maid ferrying hot rolls to a cooling rack, but she's twisted the desserts up, skirt and all, into a bundle she clutches against her hip. She's less likely to drop any _and_ it leaves her legs completely free as they sprint back to Lyon's room together.

His own legs and his lungs are burning by the time they reach it. Ephraim ducks in a mere moment after them, running from the opposite direction.

"We lost them," he says. Lyon closes the door behind them all, mostly to collapse against it and brace his heaving back, while the smile drops from Ephraim's face. "Sorry. I didn't manage to get any food, even after all that."

Eirika just curtseys to him, daintily revealing what she and Lyon accomplished while he bought them time.

Father MacGregor is suspicious the next morning when they all show up for their maths lesson with bleary eyes and stomachaches. Armoured plates were scattered across the corridor by the kitchens, and the kitchens themselves reeked of dark magic when the servants came to start the fires for breakfast, and all the figs placed there the night before were gone. But Ephraim's shirt hides the bruise from the former, and Lyon's learning tome—simple Flux—is tucked away in his desk still, unborrowed during the night. And sweet, well-behaved Princess Eirika certainly couldn't have eaten all those figs herself. (Though Lyon remembers fondly, in the weeks after, how she tried.)

 **V. Snow**

They leave in a week.

Snow has come to Grado for the first time that season, a month later than it would fall in Renais. It began in the night as a simple flurry, but now the entire world outside Lyon's window is blanketed in it. He's blanketed too, smothered and sweating against his pillows while his fever rages. The snow looks so delightfully cold and he wishes to push open his window and simply fall into it. It leaves everything clean and soft and whisper-quiet. The only sounds at all are the pounding of his blood within his temples, and the wheezing within his chest, and the incessant thought: _They leave in a week_.

They're going out to play, he knows. He can see them already, Ephraim trying to push thicker gloves onto Eirika while she's trying to convince him to wear a hat. She'll concede eventually; he won't.

He wants so desperately to join them. Part of it's the time frame, he knows, and the anxiety to fill it with memories spikes his heartbeat and increases the pounding in his head. But the rest is the ever-gnawing reminder of his weakness. He just wants to be a healthy, normal, good child. Like them. He just wants to keep up...

The way the door bursts open should startle him from his thoughts, but instead he drips down from them, like molasses from the end of a spoon.

"How are you feeling?" Ephraim is asking him. Somehow they got all the way to his bedside before he could blink. His face is swimming and he wears no hat but Lyon can see it jammed into his pocket.

"What are you doing here?" he asks instead of answering. "You should be outside, playing."

"It won't be nearly as fun without you," says Eirika.

"We asked the clerics if you could join us for just a little while."

"They gave us so many stipulations, but I think they underestimated what we were willing to do."

"Don't you want to come along?"

Lyon stares and then manages "Yes, _yes_ ," and they're helping him out of bed, Ephraim rummaging for warm clothes while Eirika pulls his hair back, so she can fit a hat and scarf around him without it getting into his mouth. If she minds that it's sweat-damp, or if Ephraim minds having to fasten all his layers and his boots because his own hands are shaking, neither of them mention it.

He's already far too warm but he bears it when they choose his two heaviest cloaks, one wool and one fur-lined, and wrap him tightly. And then their cloaks are around him too, like wings as they press their body heat against his sides, and then they wrap all three of them in his thickest blanket, as their final touch. They can only walk so fast through the corridors, attached by the hip as they are, but Lyon could not manage much faster in any case. And then they're through the door and out into the brilliant whiteness, sharp and refreshing against his face. Ephraim carries a flask beneath his jacket, bleeding a special heat against Lyon's ribs: cider with lemon and honey, as the healers required, for his aches and his throat. Eirika has strict instructions to take him back inside the moment he begins to shiver.

They take a long walk through the garden together. The twins kick up snow and giggle. Lyon tries to make sense of the patterns the flakes make as the wind catches them. Though everything feels faraway and delayed, though his legs quiver with every step, Eirika and Ephraim hold him upright and steady. He's ill but he's not _sickly_ , then. He's a regular, adequate boy enjoying the snow, as is proper; he's the prince he's always wanted to be while they carry him.

And he knows, even through the fog of his fever, that if they ever needed him to— he would do anything to be strong enough to carry them in return, someday.

Anything.

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 _Notes: I have some random notes on my Tumblr if anyone's interested. Just go through my fanfic or fe8 tags._


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